Secondary Gain
by CD1996
Summary: The van is a loathed posting. Neal's been creative in skirting its confines in the past, but even he would prefer fulfilling his surveillance van duties over becoming a human pinball.


"Why am I in the van, again?" Neal's voice held the edge of complaint to Peter's ears.

"Because your aliases weren't needed in this operation, but your eyes and ears _are_," Peter replied succinctly, straightening the front of his shirt and adjusting his tie before shrugging into his jacket – Armani, of all things, which Neal had gone to great lengths to convince Peter of its necessity in his role – and affixing the expensive-looking, but tastefully understated, transmitting timepiece to his wrist.

Neal released a long-suffering sigh of acceptance and leaned back in his chair, assessing Peter's appearance.

"Well?" Peter held out his arms.

Neal was silent for a beat, scrutinizing as he chewed on his lip and contemplated ways to escape the van and attend Peter's – no, _Peter Morris's _meeting – as his business associate, financier, _something_…

"You look good," Neal admitted when Peter cleared his throat impatiently, sitting up quickly and rising to his feet as he dumped his headphones behind his monitor. The suit fit him beautifully, the deep charcoal fabric creating exquisite lines that Neal knew El would appreciate later. Neal plucked the coordinating overcoat and scarf from a hangar nestled in the grate behind the driver-side seat of the van, helping Peter into it.

"Be good," Peter warned, wriggling into the coat.

"Peter!" Neal exclaimed, scandalized, but stopped short when Peter poked him hard in the sternum with his index finger.

"Behave yourself. No coffee runs, no deliveries from _The Greatest Cake –_"

"That was just _one time_…"

Peter drew a deep breath. "Neal. I mean it. No disappearing acts. I don't care _how_ helpful you think you're being or what comes up. Stay. Put."

"My throat is kinda scratchy…" Neal feigned a feeble cough, his eyes incongruously hopeful. "Been fighting a headache…"

"No sick leave, to get out of it, either."

"Really?" Neal actually looked defeated now as he slumped back into his chair and reached for his headphones once more. "Wow, you're mean."

Peter stared incredulously, and Neal continued, pretending to study his screen as he smashed the earpieces onto his head. "You're a mean meanie who's mean," he muttered.

Now Peter arched an eyebrow and suppressed a grin. Neal was honest-to-God _pouting_. "And you're a conman who's trying to convince me – although not terribly convincingly – that he's unable to sit in a van and watch a monitor. Pay your dues, Neal. I know the concept is foreign to you."

The glower Neal sent in Peter's direction was enough to signify that he was an inch away from sticking his tongue out petulantly.

Peter shook his head and offered, "Hey, if it's that boring, send some messages to Sara. I'm sure you could make it more than interesting."

"What? No! Ew!"

The back of the van suddenly slid open and Diana climbed in ahead of Jones, bearing a cardboard carrier laden with full coffee cups that she immediately began divvying out.

"What are we talking about?" she asked, popping the lid off one of the cups to double-check the contents before handing it off to Jones.

"Neal sexting with Sara."

"Ew?"

"EW!"

"Those are words you should never hear your boss use…"

"Unless you want to get in on that, Diana…because I could – "

"Caffrey, I _will_ hurt you."

Neal held up his hands placatingly and threw a sideways grin at Jones, who had the grace to school his suddenly eager expression into one more contrite.

"All right, kids," Peter grinned fondly at his team as he turned to hop out and shut the door. "Let's get this show on the road. I'm going in."

~`~,~~ ~`~,~~ ~`~,~~ ~`~,~~ ~`~,~~ ~`~,~~

Six hours later, absorbing the doctor's words and watching Neal lie, pale and tense, in a back brace while he waited for the medication to finally kick in, Peter wondered just how it had gone south so quickly.

He had been confident of working his criminal into a subtle confession, gaining just enough of the information they needed to make an arrest and shut down his fraudulent insurance company (reminding himself to thank Sara for her invaluable intel). Instead, Peter had unwittingly backed the guy into a corner and he'd bolted in a violent burst of overturned tables and toppled bookshelves as he wove through the office building. Desperate to escape, the man had shot from the parking garage in a vehicle he could not handle, the commandeered Lamborghini Spyker speeding out of control down the block before missing the turn and careening into the side of the unmarked surveillance van.

Peter remembered shouting for backup even before the deafening, sickening crunch of metal on metal – but his shouts quickly became calls for ambulances and rescue as he sprinted, as fast as his legs would allow, toward the scene of what he desperately hoped was not a fatal accident.

"Neal!" he shouted frantically as he neared the battered vehicles, his heart in his throat. "Diana! Jones!" The pounding of his feet on the pavement was not nearly as rattling as the sound that was cycling in his ears, and he had to skid to a halt once he was on top of the crash site. At first glance, the impact didn't look nearly as devastating as it had sounded, but his relief was dampened by the eerie hissing of steam, the ping of stressed metal and the stench of hot automobile fluids. There was no movement from either vehicle. He knew his people weren't exactly as 'secured' as the driver of the car had been, nor did they have the luxury of airbags. They'd no doubt been tossed around pretty heavily and he couldn't imagine their luck if not every one of them was injured.

He circled the van in a daze, coming back to the Lamborghini, the wail of sirens discernable in the distance. Shaking himself, he reached in to check the dazed driver of the car and cuff him to his steering wheel more roughly than necessary, but at least the guy groaned a little and his pulse was steady. His skin, though gritty with dust settling from the deployed airbags, felt normal. Retrieving his pocketknife, Peter punctured the airbag and eased his perpetrator to rest against the steering wheel without jostling him when the sudden creak of metal drew his attention.

He straightened and shouted again. "Diana?"

Diana's strained, "Boss!" was indeed welcome, even if the apparent lack of Neal's reassuring shout ratcheted up his panic.

"Neal? Jones?"

"Neal's out," came Clinton's pained voice.

"Okay," Peter managed, shuffling to the rear of the van to check the door. "Okay, just…don't move, you guys, okay? Stay put, help is on the way. How badly are you hurt?"

He wrestled with the door for a brief moment, the buckling of the side of the vehicle hindering its normally smooth opening. Shoving it aside, he had to swallow a curse. Diana was struggling to her feet, hunched over and bracing herself against the metal housing of the passenger-side computer console. Blood ran in a thick line over her right eyebrow and down her cheek from a gash on her forehead. Clinton, who was sitting on the impact-side, still appeared to be in his chair – which was trapped between the driver's side grating. His leg looked pinned at an odd angle beneath the chair, and Peter understood the edge to his voice, now.

A groan from the floor drew Peter's attention to Neal. He was crumpled in an awkward heap of limbs – with a smashed monitor, shattered screen down, wedged against him – and Peter shuddered to think how close it came to landing on his head, before he wondered whether it had managed to land anywhere else on him.

"Neal," Peter responded, as the younger man's eyelashes began to flutter with another groan. "Hey, Neal. Don't move, all right?"

"Peter?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's me. Just lie still. There's a bus on the way."

Neal blinked, bewildered, swallowing thickly as Peter rested a light hand on his shoulder. "What happened – ? Is everyone all right?"

Peter glanced at the other two, who both nodded at the noted slur to Neal's words.

"Yeah, Caffrey," Diana murmured hoarsely. "We're okay."

"Mmm," Neal sighed, his eyes rolling shut again.

"Neal, stay awake!"

"Peter!" Neal blinked, taking a moment to focus blearily on his handler. "Hey, Peter. When did you get here?"

"A few minutes ago. Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

"Dunno…my head hurts some…and y'know, I've had this cough…"

Peter released his breath with a whoosh, shaking his head in amazement and not a little bit of relief as Neal grinned weakly at him. He chuckled lightly. "All right, you…"

The shriek of sirens was becoming louder, and outside the van, flashing lights could be seen reflecting off of nearby windows. Peter glanced over his shoulder, the crunching of tires suddenly audible as the sirens were silenced and the cruisers parked at the scene. Voices barking orders could be heard as doors opened and closed.

"Cavalry's here," Jones muttered, squirming uncomfortably to relieve the discomfort in his leg.

Neal began to shift onto his side a little more, as if he were trying to look towards Jones, but his movement was abruptly halted by a gasp.

"Hey," Peter scolded him gently, steadying him with a careful touch. "What did I tell you?"

Neal hissed between gritted teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, the muscles in his neck visibly tense. "Wow…yeah. Lying still. No problem."

"Sir?"

Peter's head whipped around and he saw a team of paramedics at the aft of the van, looking back at him with equal parts curiosity and business. He nodded and out of habit went for his badge before he realized he did not have it since he was undercover for the night.

"Special Agent Peter Burke," he offered, glancing pointedly at Neal to "stay" as he rose to his feet. "I'm fine; I'll get out of your way."

"They're going to need the room to get Clinton free and move Neal, boss, I'm okay – I can follow you."

"Diana – are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah – bump on the head, some bruises. I just want to get out of their way."

Peter nodded at his stubborn and unequivocally tough female agent, offering a hand to steady her as she carefully stepped around Neal, who had his eyes closed again, and helped ease her down the steps to the waiting EMTs. She glanced back at her colleagues, making eye contact with Jones and frowning at Neal, before she was ushered away.

Reluctantly, Peter had to retreat as more medical personnel swarmed in; he had a suspect to book and details to wrap up. He knew his team was in capable hands, but he was desperately torn, feeling unusually uncertain and rattled. He felt his jaw clench tightly while his brain ran full-tilt through what needed to be done, attempting to tamp down his concern.

Peter observed as long as he possibly could, a team of firefighters entering the van with the Jaws of Life to cut Clinton free while another team worked to rouse Neal and secure him with a neck brace and backboard. He had to stifle a chuckle, shivering as his adrenaline began to drop, when Neal looked more annoyed by all the fuss than anything and had the gall to ask the paramedics not to cut off his suit.

He supervised the treatment and loading of his suspect, who had regained consciousness and was working his injuries to their full extent, moaning obnoxiously and cursing loudly every chance he could – even when no one was handling him. Peter shook his head in disgust, made sure he'd been read his rights, and cuffed him to the stretcher just to make a point.

With three of his team members injured, he then took a moment to update Hughes via phone and assure him that everything would be fine (or perhaps just assure himself). He cringed to consider the report he would have to write and was more than frustrated that, despite having grounds to hold his suspect, he still had no confession of the fraud. Standing in the midst of squad cars and EMS vehicles, a cacophony of flashing lights bouncing off of nearby building faces and throwing the pavement into red and white relief, Peter ran a hand through his hair and sighed. What a cluster—

A rather pitiful-sounding groan broke his train of thought, and Peter was just about to roll his eyes and tell his suspect to shut his hole when it suddenly escalated to an unmitigated howl of pain. Peter spun, realizing instantly that what he heard came from the direction of the surveillance van, not his perp, and with a cold, sinking feeling he rushed towards Neal's side.

He got there just in time to help roll him awkwardly on his side and hold him steady as he vomited over the side of the stretcher. By the time he'd stopped throwing up, he was trembling and white as chalk, involuntary moans escaping his throat. His entire body was rigid, muscles coiled with so much pain it took a minute before he could respond to the questions and grate out the hoarse, "My back!" that gave voice to his problems.

Peter felt a chill wash over him as he glanced at the paramedic team in horror as they began to scramble, securing Neal once more to the stretcher and all but shoving Peter aside.

"What's going on?" Peter tried to demand, his voice sounding hollow and thin. "Will he be all right?"

"We can't answer that, Agent Burke," one of them replied gently, but firmly. "We're gong to transport him to Mount Sinai. You can meet us there."

Peter nodded numbly, barely managing to reach down and give Neal's forearm a squeeze before he was whisked away. Even though Neal appeared to be lost in his haze of pain, it was all Peter could offer in lieu of hopping in the ambulance with him. _God_, _I should be going with him_, he thought frantically, as he caught words like _internal bleeding_ and _spinal trauma_ that made his blood run cold. And what about the rest of his team?

Peter forced himself to breathe around the pound of his pulse in his head, taking stock again of his scene. Focus. Jones and Diana were both being transported for x-rays and stitches, he learned. Both had witnessed Neal's episode and were equally concerned, apologizing in kind that they could not help to wrap up. Their relative calm and the fact that they appeared to be doing okay was helpful enough, though.

Although it felt infinitely longer, within the next hour, Peter was finished and with little convincing, received a police escort to the hospital, making it there before Neal had been taken for an MRI. As he paced the waiting room and its adjoining corridors, he received word that Clinton had sustained a broken foot with an accompanying leg sprain and Diana had received six stitches and a diagnosis of a mild to moderate concussion. Both would be just fine. He resisted the urge to throw his badge around a bit to expedite any information regarding Neal because, in his opinion, the process was taking entirely too long.

But, at last the doctor had called for him. While they waited for Neal to be returned from his scans (apparently he'd thrown up again during the MRI and he was getting cleaned up), Peter's status as Neal's handler proved useful and the doctor was well aware that Neal was already extremely irritable and exhausted. He knew there was no way Neal would absorb any information about his condition. Neal would be fine, too.

~`~,~~ ~`~,~~ ~`~,~~ ~`~,~~ ~`~,~~ ~`~,~~

Neal's hitched breathing, followed by a soft groan, tore Peter from his reverie. He blinked widely and sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Neal looked terrible. Lines of fatigue were etched into his wan features and he was still too tense. Because they'd had to wait and determine the severity of his concussion, rule out internal bleeding and thoroughly assess the extent of his torn spinal ligaments, his pain level had been off the charts and difficult to get a handle on once a treatment protocol was finally devised.

"You gonna be sick again?" Peter asked softly.

Neal swallowed hard and took a couple of deep breaths, obviously trying to take inventory and not complain about being pestered, having already snarled at Peter to "stop hovering" when he was first settled in the room. Peter had retreated as far as the guest chair as nurses flitted about removing ice packs and securing his back brace, adjusting his nasal cannula and administering medication, but kept a close eye on him. The doctor had warned that Neal might not be quite his usual charming self.

Peter nodded to himself, and brushed his fingers against the back of Neal's hand, careful not to disturb the pulsox monitor or the IV lines, but wishing to offer some semblance of comfort. "Should be any time, now. It's been nearly half an hour since they said to give it a little longer."

Neal's eyes finally opened, startlingly blue amidst their red rims and the dark bruising beneath them. "Yeah," he responded blankly.

"Yeah? As in 'yeah, I'm gonna be sick' or 'yeah, the medicine is working'?"

"…Starting to work," Neal murmured, blinking slowly as he swallowed again. He found Peter with his half-lidded stare. It took him several seconds to continue with, "Thanks…for being 'ere."

Peter smiled wearily. "Sure."

Neal's fingers twitched and Peter didn't hesitate this time to cover them with his own hand. They were cold. He pressed the nurse's call button, wincing apologetically when its beep caused Neal to flinch.

"Yes?"

"Could we trouble you for another blanket?" Peter requested as quietly as he could. "He's cold."

It only took a minute or two for the nurse to appear, arms laden with blankets and other items. She carefully unfurled the blankets and spread them over Neal, who responded with a grateful hum at their heat, fresh from the warmer.

"Okay, Mr. Caffrey," she then addressed him softly. "The doctor has also ordered you a muscle relaxer to see if that helps with the pain and allows you to sleep, but because it can depress your respiration and you're already nursing those bruised ribs, we're going to leave the oxygen on, all right?"

Neal grunted, and Peter fought a smile. The nurse continued about her ministrations, unfazed, injecting a clear syringe into Neal's IV port. She then reached up to dim the light just behind his head and placed a cool compress over Neal's eyes to block out the rest of the light, earning a genuine moan of relief.

"Oh," Neal gasped in a rather un-Caffrey-like manner. "I think I love you right now." His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, but he finally gave up trying to say anything more, exhaling heavily.

"Glad to help. Try to rest now, Mr. Caffrey. I'll check on you soon."

She offered a smile and a nod to Peter, then left, closing the door behind her and leaving them in a surprisingly quiet room. For that, Peter was grateful. After a few minutes, Neal mumbled incoherently and Peter wasn't sure if he was supposed to respond.

"What was that?"

"Y'get'im?"

Oh. "Well, technically, yes. Not for the fraud. But for nearly killing my team? Yes. The rest will fall into place. He's a coward."

Neal licked at his lips and swallowed, prompting Peter to reach for the cup of ice chips that had been left. If it was awkward to feed his consultant crushed ice with a spoon, it didn't cross his mind, and Neal made such a grateful noise in the back of his throat that he kept it up for a few more spoonfuls.

"What, you don't love _me_ right now?" Peter asked with an amused snort.

"Ew."

Peter chuckled.

"I'll tell you about the Edenhurst," Neal amended with as long an utterance as he'd managed in quite awhile, "If you'll give me a little more."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, since you're so doped up at the moment, you'd probably say anything. Just remember that he who holds the ice chips wields all the power."

Neal managed to huff out a tiny laugh. "'M gonna hope... 'm blitzed 'nough on all these drugs… I don't remember this t'morrow…"

Peter set down the cup and studied Neal. Of course. God forbid Neal Caffrey should _ever_ appear less than suave and capable. He shook his head, exasperated. Neal would have to get used to it for the near future, at least, with several days of strict bed rest followed by restricted activity with his brace, supervision while he recovered, physical therapy…Peter could only imagine the frustration that was to come. Neal didn't do restrictions and confinement well. It would be a trial for everyone.

But, as Neal's jaw slackened and his breaths grew deeper, Peter found it was more than a fair trade. He moved to stretch out on the ridiculous futon by the window, spreading out the sheet and blanket he'd been given earlier with a yawn. What a night.

"…so, P'ter?" Neal mumbled, sounding very nearly asleep.

Peter straightened and looked back at him in the darkened room. "Yes, Neal?"

"…about that sick leave…?"


End file.
